Mere happenstance of sound has brought Together choruses of words With meanings disparate, unsought, Yet forced by poetry to serve As members of a traveling band. With "love" comes "dove" and "from above"; "Command" is yoked to "understand". Conjoined with "moon" stiff verses shove Both "tune" and "June", as if they meant Something related; neither do. Instead, imagine accident Of language made the term for "true" Be spoken so it rhymed with "moose". Might quadrupedal herbivores Take center stage, along with "juice", As lyric praise of virtue soars To fancied heights? And could the hue Of honest color be replaced, So that instead of loyal blue The noblest tints would be puce-based?

The mind recoils. And yet, c'est vrai, In other tongues it's said that way!